Baby on the move

The first five years of my life are not much of a memory for me and I haven't gone through therapy to find out why, nor do I really care to. All I know is what has been told to me with small things that peak through like memories but even that might just be photographically induced. What I do know for sure is that my parents were the forerunners of flipping houses. They bought a new house each year from when I was born to age 5. The first three were fixer uppers in what is now considered the lower middle class area of my hometown. I'm sure the war-time bungalows were picturesque back then and with my father's self-taught handyman skills, they must have contributed to the betterment of the neighbourhood, if not their own bank statements.

This led to renting an apartment to save up money for their next big adventure. They would move out to the country and live in a two bedroom open-concept cottage that my father had subcontracted and consequently ended up doing a lot of the work himself. I also believe it was an incentive to move on after my mother's miscarriage of a baby girl who would have been only a couple years younger than me. For some reason nature decided it was not the right time for my mother to have another baby. Nature continued playing around when shortly after construction of the cottage my mother became pregnant again with my sister, having to resort to fertility drugs. Nature's a bitch!

Much like the difficulty of getting and staying pregnant for my mother, so would giving birth this time around. Remember how easy I was, this was not a walk in the park and grandma had to move into the tiny cottage to take care of my mother right after my sister was born. I was moved to the couch facing the floor to ceiling windows exposing me to all manor of wildlife, so I took precautions. My Flintsone's tool box had everything I needed to keep me safe, even if my friends (the mice) were no longer able to come to my aid. Mother had murdered them all with her broom since making nests in my hand-knit sweaters was not acceptable behavior for house guests. But I was young, adaptable, I made due. However, my sister changed everything. We moved one last time, back to the city and into the house which my parents still call home.

A baby no longer on the move would stay put for almost half his life to this point. It's still the only house I really remember and have the privilege of continuing to visit to this day, unlike some friends who sadly watch their childhood homes being sold out from under them. Memories are more than mere brick and mortar. Now they're digital, baby!